


Oreilles de Cochon

by threewalls



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Episode s01e13: Savoureux, Gen, Illnesses, Spoilers, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does the ear end up in Will's sink? (Spoilers for Savoureux.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oreilles de Cochon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at the Hannibal kink meme: "Hannibal is highly manipulative and good at doing sneaky things, but how on earth did he manage to ensure Will not only ate Abigail's ear _in his sleep_ , but that he would throw it up, still easily recognisable?"

I butcher Abigail in Minnesota. The facilities in her father's cabin are adequate to the task, though his tools have all been confiscated by the FBI. While Abigail's carcass hangs in the cabin, I purchase suitable knives and all other necessary accoutrement in Bloomington's particularly egregious contribution to the mass-produced consumerism that plagues this country. I pay cash.

I am not Garett Jacob Hobbs, and I will not honor every part of his daughter. I will honor the part of her that I value the most. Her hair, I clip with scissors first and then a razor. I cleave her head from her neck. I skin her face with a paring knife, and her ears are a casualty of the process.

The meat that was once Abigail Hobbs is very pale, like the palest pink of dawn, secured in a number of gallon-sized food-grade plastic bags. I press them flat to remove as much air as possible. The blood I sop with a checked flannel shirt, which, with some intricate folding, I also bag in plastic. My own clothes are spotless, exactly as Hobbs's were after he attempted the murder at which I succeeded.

As I am practiced at my art, the task of butchering Abigail Hobbs takes no more time than I have at my disposal. I bury what I do not take, in the woods, under the snow, where she will be found in the spring thaws as I intended Nicholas Boyle to be found. This is my design.

I will fly from Minneapolis to Baltimore, cutting fifteen hours what would be from my travel time by car.

I do not travel with the meat; I freeze and package it for overnight delivery. Her ears, however, I take with me, sandwiched between two slices of uniformly white and over processed wheat bread. I assure the TSA agent that politely assists me to arrange my coat, my suit jacket and the contents of my pockets into a plastic tray that I have no liquids or gels within my hand luggage.

It is dark, and it is late, when I arrive at Will Graham's house. I have a key that unlocks his front door, which he gave me when he asked me months ago to feed his dogs.

But I do not need the key. 

I decelerate as my headlights reveal Will Graham himself standing in his underwear. He watches his house, apparently unconcerned by the sudden illumination. His feet are encrusted with mud from the churned up earth of the approach to the house.

There is disagreement as to the best method of intervening in cases of somnambulism. Those who experience the symptoms are often confused upon waking, occasionally violent. The cold, the crust of snow on the ground, these will not be good for his compromised immune system. I discern that his fever has returned from the sweat stains under the arms of his T-shirt. 

I unlock my briefcase. I remove the shirt still damp with Abigail's blood.

His eyes are open, but glassy. He does not see me. 

I enclose his hand in the bloodied cloth. I scratch my nails sharply along his exposed forearm, holding his hand steady as his fingers dig sharply into the cloth. I repeat the process with his left hand and arm. This is my design.

I cradle the back of his head. I touch between his lips with my fingertips. I touch his teeth, leveraging the space between his jaws. 

As I thrust my fingers across his softly texture surface of his tongue, I think of Abigail's tongue, in plastic, in transit from Minnesota. I lay my fingers along his teeth, forming a V, through which I push one of her ears. I push it through to the entrance of his throat.

I tell Will that he must swallow without chewing.

I hold his jaw closed. I hold his throat. I stroke his throat, discouraging the nausea and gagging that can be symptomatic of his condition. I repeat my instructions. I tell him that must he must not choke. I am patient. I am persistent. I feel him swallow, and let him go. 

I take him by the arm, leading him up his own front steps, through his front door and into his house. Into his bed. I throw the bloodied bread, and the other ear, to Will's dogs. 

Beside the lure in which I incorporated Cassie Boyle, I set another three, ready for Jack Crawford and his investigators in the morning. 

The stage is set. This is my design. I let myself out, and lock the door.

Maybe it happened like that, Will thinks. He has a lot of time to think now.

**Author's Note:**

> In Louisiana, there is a dish called _oreilles de cochon_ , a type of fried pastry that is twisted precisely at the moment that the dough hits the fat. In France, the term applies to an ingredient rather than a recipe, and one very distinctly less suitable for vegetarians.


End file.
